Lost In Hollywood - A System Of A Down Story
Hope you guys are going to enjoy this story. I've been working on it on and off for over 10 years (and still working on it). It's a bit of a System Of a Down biography, based on real life events but often with a fictional twist. (:
In 1997, best friends Ellie and Arlo trade their quiet European hometown for the sun-drenched chaos of Glendale, Los Angeles, chasing a half-formed dream and a fresh start.
When they cross paths with the rising local band System Of A Down, their lives tilt in a new direction - into rehearsal rooms, rattling vans, late-night load-outs, and the strange, exhilarating world of people who live for music.
As Ellie is drawn into an unexpected connection with a bandmember and Arlo finds both belonging and heartbreak among the crew, the two friends learn that dreams don't unfold the way you expect - they twist, burn, tangle, and sometimes lead you exactly where you're meant to be.
Lost In Hollywood is a story about friendship that feels like home, love that sneaks up on you, and the beautiful, chaotic years that change everything.
[ Content Note: This story deals with themes of past abusive relationships, trauma, and emotional/physical recovery. ]
'Because sometimes, the leap of faith you take isn't the one that lands you where you planned - it's the one that makes you feel alive.'
Chapter I - Dreams Don't Pay Rent
That was the rhythm of us - half hope, half escape plan. The dream never changed: a record shop that would fix everything.
Arlo and I had always spoken in somedays.
Someday when we’d save enough money.
Someday when we’d finally get the guts to leave everything we know behind.
Someday when the world felt big enough to hold our dream - we’d cross the ocean and start over.
Not the glossy kind with neon signs or espresso machines, but something smaller. A sliver of a place tucked between coffeehouses and pawnshops somewhere under the Californian sun. A safe corner of the world where people could flip through dusty vinyls, sip burnt coffee, and argue about whether Slayer peaked too early or if Faith No More ever really got the credit they deserved.
So we sold what little we had and bought two one-way tickets to Los Angeles.
When we landed in Glendale in the spring of ’97, the dream felt close enough to taste but still a lifetime away.
We showed up with two suitcases, a milk crate of records, and an address for an apartment that turned out to be the size of a walk-in closet. It sat right above a laundromat, the kind where you could hear every rinse cycle through the floorboards. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something we could call ours.
Many nights were spent sitting cross-legged on the floor sketching out plans on napkins and scraps of cardboard like blueprints for a dream. Making up store names and layouts that barely made any sense. And somehow we still kept telling ourselves that someday wasn’t so far off anymore.
But Glendale had a rhythm of its own and it wasn’t kind. Rent came due, bills piled up higher than the milk crate, and the idea of the record shop slipped quietly to the back of our minds.
We scraped by the way everyone else in the city seemed to - splitting takeout dinners, counting loose change, working whatever jobs would take us. Whenever we could, we tucked a few dollars away like it might grow into something bigger if we just left it alone long enough.
Eventually things leveled out.
Barely.
I found steady work as a clerk at the local Blockbuster. Arlo landed a job hauling crates at a warehouse a few blocks away.
It wasn’t glamorous.
But it kept the lights on.
We learned to find comfort in the city’s noise; the smell of grilled kebabs from corner stands, the shouting of street vendors, the flyers stapled to telephone poles promising cheap beer and loud music.
Most nights, we ended up in half-empty clubs, soaking in whatever bands were clawing their way up from L.A.’s underground. That’s how we first saw System of a Down.
The show was at the Whisky a Go Go - a cramped, chaotic little box where the floor shook and the sound system gave up every other chorus.
But those guys? They were something else;
Weird
Ferocious.
Completely magnetic.
We didn’t understand half the lyrics, but we didn’t need to. There was an urgency in their sound that made our own displacement feel almost... seen.
I remember standing shoulder to shoulder with Arlo in the middle of the pit, both of us drenched in sweat, grinning like two idiots. We didn’t have to say anything. We both knew what the other was thinking;
This noise. This city. This mess.
It was ours now
After the set, when most of the crowd spilled outside for a smoke, we stuck around at the bar. The lights were low, the counter sticky, the air buzzing with leftover static. Arlo dropped a handful of coins onto the bar like a small victory.
“Two of whatever’s cheapest,“ he told the bartender, still flushed from the pit, grin wide and wild.
“Did you catch that breakdown near the end?“ he said, slapping the bar for emphasis. “Like bam! They just swallowed us whole and spit us right back out.“
I laughed, shaking my head. “Yeah, it was gnarly - but it worked.“
“Absolutely! I didn’t want it to end.“ His eyes were bright, alive, the kind of light I hadn’t seen in months. Then, as he took a slow sip, it dimmed just a touch, the grin softening into something smaller.
“Y’know,“ he said after a pause, “if we ever open that shop, we should have a section just for bands like that. The ones that sound like the world’s ending but still make you want to stay and listen.“
I smiled into my drink. “We’ll call it ’The Apocalypse Bin’. Discount for anyone who survives it.“
He chuckled - quiet and real - but his gaze fell to the counter again, the smile slipping almost as quickly as it had appeared. “You think we’ll ever get there?“
I stirred the ice in my glass, watching it swirl into cloudy, fractured patterns.
“Someday,“ I said out of habit. Then softer, “Just… not tonight.“
We sat in silence after that, sipping slowly. Half of us trying to stretch the night, half of us trying to ignore the quiet waiting back home at the apartment. The music from the venue spilled faintly through the walls, a low hum beneath our silence, a reminder that the world kept turning even when we couldn’t.
When Arlo excused himself to hit the restroom, I stayed at the bar, half-listening to the faint hum of music still bleeding through the walls. My attention wandered back to the stage, where the guitarist was still there.
I wasn’t staring,
Or at least, I wasn’t trying to,
But artists have a strange radar for being watched.
His eyes flicked up.
They landed on me for a split second - just long enough to register that I wasn’t one of the screaming fans leaning over the barricade.
Maybe it was the alcohol speaking, or maybe I was just avoiding my own thoughts but before I could talk myself out of it, my feet were already carrying me toward the stage.
“Need a hand with that?“ I asked.
He glanced up again and laughed - Short and surprised like he couldn’t quite believe the audacity.
Sweat streaked down the side of his face, catching on the faded smudge of eyeliner beneath his eyes. A strand of dark hair stuck to his forehead until he brushed it away with the back of his hand.
“You’ve got a spare string or two hiding in that purse of yours?“ He teased. His voice was lower than I expected. Softer than it was on stage.
Up close, he seemed thoughtful. Slightly guarded. Like his mind was still half in the set.
“Not quite,“ I said, matching his tone. “but if you have a few lying around, I can fix it.“
He just blinked, as if he couldn’t decide whether I was bluffing until I held out my hand. Then he passed the guitar over, slow and almost cautious.
I lowered myself onto the riser beside him, the worn wood cool against my palm. My hands moved with practiced ease - loosen, thread, tighten - pure muscle memory.
He stayed close. His fingers hovering over mine, hesitant, waiting to jump in. But he didn’t.
“You guys were incredible by the way,“ I said, in an effort to fill the silence. The second the words left my mouth I worried they sounded too generic.
He tilted his head slightly.
“Yeah?“ There was a faint almost-smirk. Not arrogance. More like he never fully trusted compliments.
“Yeah, the energy felt like… controlled chaos,“ I added, surprising myself with the phrasing.
“Controlled?“ he repeated.
“Yeah. It doesn’t feel messy. It feels intentional.“
Something shifted in his expression - subtle, but real. Most people probably just yelled song titles at him.
“Most people think it’s just noise,“ he said.
“Well, it’s not,“ I replied. I could feel my heart beating harder than the situation warranted. I wasn’t someone who started conversations with strangers. Even small social risks usually tied my brain into knots.
He held my gaze for a second longer than politeness required before glancing back at my hands. For a moment he just sat there quietly observing me.
“You’re… really good at this,“ he said finally, the teasing replaced by something more genuine. I kept winding the string, pretending the praise didn’t hit me square in the chest.
“You play?“ he asked, still not moving.
“A little,“ I said with a shrug. I probably knew my way around a fretboard better than I knew my way around a tax form.
His mouth tugged into a crooked smile, like he could see straight through the downplay. “So what’s ’a little,’ then?“ he asked. “You shred? Strum? Something in between?“
“Enough to get by,“ I said. I avoided his eyes, focusing on the last careful turn of the tuning peg.
He leaned back on his palms, considering. “That’s the most suspicious answer I’ve ever heard.“
I huffed out a laugh, more flustered than I meant to be, then slid the guitar back into his waiting hands. “Play it. You’ll hear if I messed it up.“
He lifted it, tested the string with a slow bend. It held. Clean. He looked at me again, this time without the teasing edge.
“You didn’t, that’s actually pretty solid.“ he said, sounding genuinely impressed. “You just saved me ten minutes of cursing. I owe you one.“
“Make it two,“ I said, brushing dust from my jeans. “That E string was about to commit suicide.“
He laughed - warm, raspy. The kind of laugh that lingered.
“I’m Daron,“ he said, a smile settling into something easy and unguarded.
“Ellie.“
He tilted his head, studying me. “You local?“
I hesitated. “Working on it. Just moved here - Glendale.“
Daron smirked. “Ah, the glamorous side of L.A.“
“Right above a laundromat,“ I said with a grin. “Living the dream.“
Something flickered across his face then - recognition, maybe, or that quiet sort of understanding people share when they’ve both started from nowhere.
“Dreams are cheap,“ he said quietly as he placed his guitar back into its case. “Rent’s not.“
I laughed, more out of habit, the static buzz of the speakers behind me humming at my back.
“You sound like Arlo.“ I said, glancing toward the bar. Arlo was back, drying his hands on a crumpled paper towel, scanning the room like he was trying to spot me. Daron followed my gaze, then slung his case over his shoulder with casual ease.
“Tell your friend he’s got good taste in bands,“ he said, his grin sharpening just a bit.
He started to walk off, weaving through stray cables and empty cases, but then he hesitated - One foot already moving, hand curled around the strap of his guitar case. He glanced back over his shoulder,
“You fix guitars for a living?“
“More like a hobby that doesn’t pay rent.“ I pondered, tugging at the frayed edge of my shirt.
He gave a slow nod.
“Stick with it.“ He said. “L.A. eats people who give up too early.“
His words resonated in my mind. Something in the way he said it hit deeper than the words themselves. It didn’t land like advice, more like experience.
“If you ever get serious about it,“ He added “Come find me.“
Before I could respond, feedback screamed through the speakers - the next band’s soundcheck cutting through everything, swallowing him whole. By the time I looked back, he was gone.
I exhaled slowly, trying to shake off the sudden emptiness, and turned back toward the bar where Arlo was waiting for me.
“I leave you for five minutes and you’re already making a habit out of fixing things for random guys in bands now?“ Arlo asked as he handed me a drink, one brow raised in that way he did when he was fishing for details.
“Only the desperate ones,“ I said, taking it from him. He laughed, tapping his glass lightly against mine. “Then I guess this city’s full of your type.“
When the next band launched into their set, Arlo and I drifted toward the edge of the room. The music was messy, too loud, borderline painful - but something about it loosened the tight coil in my stomach. Maybe it was the adrenaline, or the leftover charge from talking to Daron, or just the way L.A. nights had a pulse all their own.
By the time the set ended, the venue had thinned out, leaving behind a floor sticky with beer and a handful of musicians arguing with the sound guy. Arlo and I slipped outside, into air that smelled like warm asphalt and car exhaust - its own kind of California perfume.
We didn’t talk at first. The city hummed around us, the freeway a constant, distant roar. Our footsteps echoed under the sickly yellow buzz of a flickering streetlight.
I didn’t answer right away. The words I’d been pretending not to hear all evening - ’If you ever get serious about it, come find me’ - kept replaying, a quiet spark catching on something dry inside me.
Finally, Arlo broke the silence.
“You looked happy back there,“ he said, voice softer than the night. “Like you belonged.“
“Maybe I did belong,“ I said eventually, my breath visible in the cool air. “At least for a song or two.“
It wasn’t about him, not really. It was the idea he’d handed me so casually, like a guitar pick tossed across a stage.
The idea that maybe I wasn’t destined to drift.
Maybe I could chase something. Build something.
Maybe I had more in me than surviving.
Arlo smiled, that small, knowing smile he only used when he saw right through me. He shoved his hands deeper into his jacket pockets, the way he always did when he was feeling hopeful but didn’t want to jinx it.
“Then maybe, we’re in the right place after all.“ he said, glancing up at the hazy glow of the city.
And for the first time since we arrived in Glendale, I let myself believe he might be right.
